


A Victory Not So Sweet

by paradiamond



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunger Games AU in which Daryl is the District 11 mentor, having won his own games twenty years ago. He's never had a pair win since, and has given up. Until the year a little girl named Sophia gets selected and makes him change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winner

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started writing this as a fill for a kink meme prompt that asked for TWD/HG fusion. I sort of abandoned it, but it wouldn't leave me alone, so I'm determined to finish it. Daryl/Sophia gen interaction is my biggest weakness.
> 
> Also, just in case anyone wants to see, this is the map I used as a reference;  
> http://aimmyarrowshigh.livejournal.com/32461.html

“Welcome all to the 55th, annual Hunger Games Reaping.” 

Somehow, the already silent crowd falls even quieter, like they’re all holding their breath. Trying to keep as still as possible. As though movement might attract her attention. 

Daryl Dixon doesn’t bother to look up, sitting with his arms crossed in an uncomfortable chair on the platform stage. He’s seen the performance enough to have the whole thing memorized. Lori Grimes’ face will be stretched into the same sickening grin as always, not reaching up anywhere close to her eyes as she surveys the crowd of clustered and dirty children with thinly veiled distaste. He can’t actually picture her clothes or hair, because they’re the only things that are ever different and he isn’t capable of thinking up that level of awful all on his own. 

“I’m just so happy to be here with you all again this year.” 

Daryl stifles a snort. _Not likely_. She’d been their Capitol representative for the past four years, and had shown about as much enthusiasm in private as most of those sent to die did. 

The mayor of the District, Morgan Jones, and his wife sit next to him, stiff as a board, a glass of wine each clutched in their hands and hard plastic smiles on their faces. He sees their eyes track along the crowd, probably looking for their own kid. It’s unlikely he’ll be picked, they don’t have to put his name in extra each year to survive like Daryl and his brother had done, but it’s always possible. Daryl hadn’t taken a drink, won’t touch anything the Capitol tries to give him when he can help it. He may have to live in their house, but he gets his own food. 

“Now, before we choose our brave young tributes, who I’m _sure_ will be a credit to the beautiful District 11, I’d like to give you all the pleasure of watching a message from the Capitol.” 

He stares over towards the forest, watching the clouds as the video singing the praises of the Games and the Capitol rolls, telling of the honor it is to compete in the deadly games, how important the responsibility. It’s a whole lot’a rot. Yawning, he stretches in his seat, earning himself a glare from Lori. He ignores her, settling back to wait out the rest of the procedure that would determine his next pair of tributes. 

He turned thirty six last month. He’d been sixteen when his name had been pulled and he’d been sent to the arena. Twenty years. Whoever they were, they would be the twentieth pair of kids he would train to die.

His first year as a mentor, he’d decided that he’d seen enough, that he could beat the system designed to keep the lesser districts down. If he could do it, why not them? He’d gotten a strong pair. Terrified of course, but with a fight in them. A drive. 

Everyone in District 11 is strong, they have to be. Agriculture might seem like an easy export, but farming is backbreaking, dangerous work, especially with the low-quality tools they’ve got. They’re already survivors. For all the food they produce, they retain less than two percent of it. They already know how to be hungry.

That year the boy, T-Dog, had been his classmate once, back when they’d gone to school. They’d worked in the fields together since they were both nine, until Daryl’s luck ran out seven years later. The girl, Jacqui, had been a sharp-eyed fifteen year old with two younger brothers and a whole lot’a determination. He’d trained them hard, drilled everything he knew into them with a vicious enthusiasm driven into him by the arena. _The odds aren’t actually in your favor, you need to make them for yourself._ He doesn’t know how many times he’s said that over the years, especially in the beginning. 

Jacqui didn’t make it two days. T-Dog hesitated to pull the trigger a week in. Fact is he wasn’t a killer, no matter how hard Daryl pushed him, or how good he was with a gun. He didn’t have it in him to shoot a person that didn’t deserve it. The Career from District 1 knew what he was doing though, a grinning eighteen year old named Shane, and put a spear through his chest. He won, in the end.

He’d mostly stopped trying after Beth, his eighth, fifteen years old and hopeless, had been ambushed by an alliance of Careers and tortured on screen before they’d killed her. Right after, one of the members decided it was time to break from the group, causing a fight. The camera kept switching between it and Beth’s body, her lifeless eyes staring off and out of the frame. 

Her father, Hershel, had come to see him in his giant empty house afterwards. The one he’d won that day in the arena. The best in the town. Daryl walked through it on the first day to close all the doors, and left them. 

Eight years later, Hershel Greene sat quietly in the front room, staring out the window. Eventually he spoke. “Did you do everything you could to help her?”

Daryl said nothing for a long time, staring down the long hall leading to an equally empty room full of furniture he never touched. 

“I couldn’t do anything.”

Hershel left quietly. Daryl put his fist through a wall. 

Beth’s sister Maggie came for him not two days later. She’d taken him by surprise walking down the street, going nowhere. Got him in the shoulder with a scythe, screaming nonsense, crying so much the words were incomprehensible. She might have killed him if she hadn’t been shaking so hard. As it was, she’d been dragged away by Peacekeepers and never seen again, just like his brother had been. He’d tried to stop them. All he got for his trouble was house arrest and a nasty scar. 

Six months indoors. He sat in the back room and stared out the window for the majority of it. He barely ate. Barely slept. Not for the first time, considered killing himself out of spite. Taking the Capitol’s puppet away from them. But there were people who depended on what he hunted, what he could provide. Even if they refused to acknowledge what he left out for them. They’d die. So he lived. 

“Sophia Peletier!” 

Daryl looks up, brought back to the present. No one moves. 

There’s the loaded silence. He searches the crowd with all the rest of them and hopes they won’t have to drag this one screaming onto the stage. 

They don’t. He watches the girl’s slow, shuffling progress, her face disturbingly blank. She’s a twelve year old, he’d bet his life on it. No one volunteers to take her place. She come to the center of the stage, the camera fixed on her face. Lori pats her on the head, smiling and asking her something. Sophia looks up at her slowly, her eyes flat. The silence stretches. Lori’s smile falters for a split second and she teeters over to the other bowl. 

They choose the boy, some field worker named Randal, sixteen years old tops. Daryl gives him a brief evaluating glance as they force him onto the stage. Skinny. Scared. 

He won’t win. 

Neither of them will. 

***

“How did you win?”

Daryl looks up. It’s Sophia, of course. She’d been watching him, silent from across the room ever since they’d left. They're the first words he’s heard out of her the whole trip. They’re in the luxury airship taking them to the Capitol. Randel is being sick in the bathroom, apparently thrown off by the motion. Or maybe it’s just the start of accepting the fact that he’s going to die. 

The ship doesn’t bother Daryl anymore. You can get used to anything, given enough time. 

He gives the girl a long, considering look. She stares back at him, almost defiant, but not quite there. She’s wearing a plain white dress that he’s willing to bet is the best thing she owns. 

Finally he shrugs. “I was smarter than everyone else.” 

She nods gravely and moves to sit across from him. “And stronger, right?”

He looks her over. “Not really. I’m no career. I killed people yeah, but mostly I got through it with brains.” 

She nods again, tracing patterns into the table. “Do you-” She frowns. “Do you think I have a chance?”

He chews his food slowly, looking her over, evaluating. By the tenth pair, he’d gotten into the swing of it. By the fifteenth, he’d mostly stopped doing all but the bare minimum that was required of him. A few years ago, in the Second Quarter Quell, he’d had four, and lost them all. Some kid from District 12 had won. He can’t hardly remember their faces, even less of their names. He doesn’t make the effort anymore, no more than he does for the kids from District 6, or District 3, or any of the others. There’s no point. They all die, in the end. 

Or worse, they win. The Careers and the odd lower district underdog. Some of them have a shot. 

Sophia really doesn’t. He makes himself lie to her anyway. It’s the only thing he can offer her now. 

***

The Capitol is huge, all metal and spires and thousands of screaming people, clamoring to get a glimpse of the new meat. He watches what little color Sophia had regained over the course of the two day ride drain out of her face at the sight of it. He almost puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. He gets a drink instead. 

She and Randal are whisked away within seconds of their feet touching solid ground. They both stare after him wide-eyed as they’re led away. He ignores them, going back inside the airship to retrieve what few things he wants from it. He runs into Lori Grimes on the way out, sporting tiger-striped hair with four inch eyelashes to match. It’s the first he’s seen of her since they boarded. He isn’t exactly upset over it. She gives him a look that says she feels the same way. At least he can escape her company until the public events get in full swing. 

He heads down the ramp and almost runs into Rick Grimes. 

_Great._ Daryl had known Rick for the entire time he’d been involved with the Capital, with the obvious exception of the first year. He had been Daryl’s primary guard for his first five years as a mentor before he’d been promoted to Captain, and has for some reason developed the belief that he and Daryl are friends. 

Rick grins and grabs his shoulder in what he probably thinks is a friendly gesture. Daryl fights down the urge to break his arm. “Daryl! I was hoping to catch you before you disappeared.” 

Daryl shrugs, effectively dislodging him. “You here to pick up yer wife?” Rick tips the rim of his helmet back, the blinding white of his Peacekeeper’s uniform making it hard to look at him in the sun. 

“Yeah but I wanted to catch you first. How ‘bout you, me, and Shane get together for drinks later?” 

The gall of these people never stops being amazing to him. “Can’t.” 

Rick’s smile falters for a split second. “Right I guess you’ve got to take care of your tributes. Think they’re a good pair this year?” 

He shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“Hard to tell but unlikely. District eleven isn’t exactly known for it’s successes.” It’s Lori, coming down the ramp, her heels clicking against the metal. 

Rick laughs. “Well, better luck next year man. It’s not everyday you get a Daryl Dixon from an outlying district.” Daryl grunts, knowing that he means it as a compliment.

Daryl really, really wants to hate Rick. He wants to hate him as much as he hates Lori, the Careers, the Gamemakers and all the rest. Unfortunately the thing about Rick is that he’s not even a bad guy. 

Not to mention that Daryl needs him to help generate support for his tributes. Rick runs the Peacekeeper division for the Capitol, he has influence Daryl would be a fool to ignore. He might not think they've got a shot, but he's still going to give these kids the best chance possible, and that means sponsors. 

Daryl clears his throat. “Heard your son is training to be a Career.” Rick’s face practically lights up. 

“Yup he sure is. Carl’s going to be great, you’ll see.” Behind him, Lori seems to swell with pride, though her knuckles turn white against the handle of her clear, useless umbrella. 

“I believe you.” The Careers always are. 

“Now you though, I’ve got to say that your games were one of my absolute favorites. The way you got that career from District two, what was her name?” He turns to Lori, but Daryl’s already answering. 

“Andrea.” 

Rick whistles and slaps him on the back. “Great kill man, I mean real Career level stuff. They still play it sometimes, even in the off-season.” 

Daryl just nods. He knows this. Rick tells him every year. 

Lori gives him a sly look hidden behind a perfect smile. “You didn’t have that many kills though, did you Daryl?” 

Rick puts his hands in his pockets. “Naw, but that wasn’t your game was it? You were the smart one, the survivalist.” Daryl just hangs back and lets the conversation take place without him. 

Lori sort of scrunches up her face. “Still though, it’s not exactly the point, is it?” 

Rick seems to consider this. “Well, it’s a major part of it. And you had another good kill didn’t you Daryl? The kid from...what was it?” 

“District 6.” The words seem to be coming from somewhere else. Someone else. 

“Right, right. The fourteen year old. Gale was it?” 

“Glenn.” 

“Oh man that’s right, the little guy.” Rick laughs, and suddenly, Daryl’s going to kill him. He’s going to beat him to death in front of his wife and all the rest of Panem. 

Lori seems to see it, because she stumbles back, her eyes wide. Rick just gives him a cautious, evaluating look. Like he’s some sort of rabid dog he knows he can put down if he needs to. And he can, they both know it. He’s got a gun, they’re surrounded by people, other Peacekeepers. He’d get maybe one punch in before they took him down. He almost hits him anyway. 

What he actually does is turn around and walk away, towards the same building he’d been staying in for twenty years, waiting to die.


	2. Dead Girl Walking

“So I’m not going to be training to fight?” The look Sophia gives him is so plainly confused he wants to smack her upside the head.

Daryl glares at her instead. “No. I’m teachin’ you to survive. You’re not likely to be killin’ anyone anytime soon.” Sophia colors slightly and looks down. 

They’re down in the training room. He’s showing her how to tie a knot that will let her keep herself up in trees overnight. Hunting starts tomorrow. 

She glances around. “Where’s Randal?” 

“Getting weapons training.” He checks her face. “He’s not your friend you know. Give him the chance and he’ll kill you.” 

She looks up at him, hurt etched across her features. Daryl doesn’t know why he’s bothering to do this. He could just leave it to the trainers, they’d give her the basic skills. He frowns and sets the rope down. “Look, it’s every man for himself out there. You don’t trust _anyone_ , you hear? An’ don’t go forming no alliances neither. You aint got nothing to add to a group, they’re just waiting to kill you.” 

She nods, serious now. “What do I do?” 

He picks the rope back up. “Survive. Stay away, stay quiet. Let the others kill each other, and then get to ground. Make sure you’re the last one standin’.” He doesn’t tell her how unlikely this is to work. Assuming he can even get her up to minimal hunting ability, she won’t know how to survive. He knew her father, worked out in the field with him until he’d been killed trying to remove a nest of tracker jackers. Knows her mother too, Carol. Knows that she did her best to keep her in school after Ed died so that she didn’t have to go to the fields right away. It’s a kindness that may have killed her, he thinks as he watches her tie the knot successfully for the first time. 

_Then again, maybe not._

It’s only a half day of training because that night is the tribute interviews, one of the most important events for them leading up to the actual games. The night before had been the reveal. All twelve pairs rode in on chariots, decked out in ridiculous costumes based around the export of their districts. He remembers his had been some sort of stupid green, skin-tight thing. Green for agriculture. Super creative stuff right there. Sophia and Randel’s were based around the sun or some shit, with radiating beams of alternating warm colors stretched across their chests and capes made of beads that jingled around their ankles. They looked like idiots, but the crowd seemed to like it, so he supposes that’s what matters. 

The Governor made his speech about how proud he was of them and how important this ritual was for the security of the state. Daryl watched from the balcony of their building, the giant screens allowing him to see. Technically he was allowed in the Victors box, but he never went and hadn’t been about to start then. He didn’t even usually bother to watch, but for some reason he’d wanted to see how the kid did. 

She’d done well, smiling and waving shyly at the crowd, just like she’d been told. _’You’re power aint in bein’ impressive. You’re a cute little girl. They wanna to love you, you jus’ gotta let them.’_

Two hours later they’re waiting in line for her interview. She looks flat out scared, and he knows he doesn’t need to tell her how important it is for her to do well. If she has any chance, it’s in winner the hearts of these heartless people, getting them to send her aid when she’s trying to survive out there. It’s the only way she’ll make it. 

Randal is off to the side, glaring down at the floor. He hadn’t talked much since the Reaping, when he’d screamed and ranted and had needed to be dragged into the car by Peacemakers. Last night he’d stood with his arms at his sides, alternatively glaring and gaping around at the crowd. 

Daryl thinks that his behavior had better not damage Sophia’s chances for sponsors. If it does he’ll be answering to him. 

Just because Randel had given up on his life doesn’t mean he should get to ruin what’s left of Sophia’s. Daryl’s partner, a girl named Jane a year older than him had gone and done the same thing, closing in on herself and moving through it all like she was already dead. Though he supposes that’s basically what he’s been doing since he won. 

He doesn’t bother to watch the other interviews. He already knows the Careers will be stunning, eloquent, and dressed in clothes worth more than the house he grew up in. The others are a toss up, but they don’t matter to him, just to the sponsors. Finally, it’s Sophia’s turn. She freezes in the doorway, her knees almost making an audible locking sound. Daryl watches Lori put a hand on her back and give her light push. She takes in a short breath, and moves. 

He watches her take the necessary steps up to the stage. He hopes she doesn’t cry, nothing puts an audience off like being reminded of what they’ve actually done. 

Once she’s on the stage itself, he turns his attention to the screen. She looks nervous, but not unbelievably so. The interviewer, the same one that had interviewed him, is a man named Dale. Daryl looks him over. He’s got what look like natural hair, which is odd, but his eyes are lime green and off putting and his suit is some horrid new fashion involving fur and metal. 

They’re clearly trying to make him seem younger. He’d heard Lori talking yesterday about they should replace him. He really is getting old. They all are. 

Sophia does well, again, and Daryl catches himself nodding along with the audience to her story about her hopes for her education and how much she believes in her district, just like he’d told her too. She’s good. 

He catches himself and looks away. _This one’s going to hurt._ He runs a hand through his hair and gets a drink. 

Randal makes a mess of it. He seems to have decided to take the ever popular ‘let’s all badmouth the Capitol like a crazy person’ route. Daryl leaves, figuring Lori will deal with it. He can already imagine the shrieking. 

He takes Sophia home, tells her she did a good job, which is true, and that she’ll probably get loads of sponsors, which isn’t. She’ll get some, but it won’t be enough to carry her through. 

“You best sleep tonight, tomorrow I’m teaching you to hunt.” 

She smiles at him. He pretends not to see it. 

***

“So I hear you’re out trolling for sponsors.” Daryl looks up. It’s Shane Walsh, looking for all the world like a man who’s had one drink too many. They’re at the Capitol building, attending a mandatory event for all Sponsors, Victors, Gamemakers, and anyone else involved in the event. He’d hoped Shane would miss him this year, but for some reason he always seeks Daryl out. 

He considers him for a moment before answering. “Why, you a sponsor now?” Shane snorts and takes the seat next to him, uninvited. “Nah. Don’t believe in it. They should be able to fight their own battles.” Daryl tightens his grip on his glass. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. 

“I hear you’re trainin’ Careers now. You know I always wondered, what does a Career do when their career is over and they’re not dead?” 

The look Shane fixes him with is totally flat. They stare at each other in silence for a good minute before Shane nods, smirking and taking another drink, his eyes scanning the room. The thing about Shane is that Daryl can tell he understands the world they live in. He’s not like Rick with his easy smiles and camaraderie. Shane was made for this world. 

“I got a good pair this year. Trained the girl myself.” He shoots Daryl a sideways look. “Too bad about yours though. A runt and a dumbass loser? Bad luck man.” 

Daryl makes a noncommittal grunt, scanning the room. He has five people in mind to sponsor Sophia, mostly older men and younger women. The kind of people most prone to idealism and the charms of little girls. 

“Mm.” Shane gestures with his drink. “See that?” Daryl looks. A young man with sandy blonde hair is making his way across the room to a group of sponsors, a look of sheer determination on his face. 

“That there is the new Daryl Dixon. Big time underdog.” He downs the rest of his drink and wipes a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “Fuck. Kid from District 12 wins the Second Quarter Quell. What’s the world coming to?” He shoots Daryl a grin. “Now and then though, I suppose it’s nice to have variety.” 

Daryl grunts. Doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Man, I kind of wish that you’d waited one more year you know? And I know it wasn’t your call, but...” He trails off, staring over at a giant fountain in the shape of twelve men, each representing one of the districts. “You would have been a challenge wouldn’t you?” 

Daryl meets his eyes. “I would have won.” Shane laughs, leaning back in his chair.

“See-” He sets his glass down on the bar. “That’s what we need. Real men, real fighters. Not a bunch of snot nosed brats sobbing over scraped knees and being hungry.” 

Daryl narrows his eyes involuntarily. He checks the position of the Peacekeepers in the room. There’s a lot of them. 

“You get it man, that’s what I’m saying.” Shane leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “This place, we’re all broken down and trying to pretend that everything's okay. Everyone in this damn city...” He leans back and scrubs a hand over his shaved head. 

“I’m telling you-” He cuts off, glancing towards the main doors which have started to open. Daryl looks over at the clock, and yes it is around time for the tributes to show up and play house with the sponsors. 

“Aw. Look at them.” Shane snickers and jerks his chin over at the kids, filing in one by one. Sophia trails along at the back, the last one through the door, like she’d been told. The last one they see. Shane raises his nearly empty glass. 

“Here’s to the walking dead.” 

Later, Daryl will tell the Peacemakers that he lost control of himself, he’d had one too many drinks. In truth though, he’d been the most sober he’d ever been in his life when he smashed Shane in the face with his glass, shattering it and breaking his nose. 

Daryl had been escorted back to his room. 

Shane had just laid there on the floor, laughing and laughing until someone hauled him up.


	3. Crash

He’s running, the sound of it crashing through the trees, a sure fire way to get caught. _It doesn’t matter though_ , he thinks as he turns his head slightly, they’re already going to catch him. 

The crossbow bangs against his back as he runs, reminding him of what an idiot he is. He never should have gone back for it. Everyone knows you don’t go back to the Cornucopia. You just don’t. The Careers always get control of it, turning it into a piece of bait that Daryl had been sure he could resist. 

Except he’s starving. He know the feeling and any longer and he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself. He wasn’t about to lay down and wait for someone to find him. So he’d gone. And now they have him. 

_Stupid, stupid._ He knows that somewhere up ahead there’s a cliff that drops off into the river, a long hard drop, but it’s his only shot. He speeds up, ignoring the shouts and jeers behind him. 

A part of him knows he’s already done this, that this is just his fucked up mind doing the Capitol’s work for them, but a bigger part is just terrified, back to being seventeen and hunted. 

The trees suddenly end and he’s standing in a field of grain. He turns, and sees a pair of eyes watching him from inside the forest. _Andrea._ His own personal stalker. 

He slings the crossbow around and grips it tightly, pointing it right at her. “Come on out you bitch!” He growls, ready to settle it. 

The eyes blink, and when they open again there’s more of them. Twenty-three pairs, Daryl’s willing to bet. This is all old material. 

Then Merle steps out of the trees, grinning. “Hey lil’ brother.” 

Daryl falters, the crossbow dropping slightly from it’s mark. “Merle, what-” He’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be back home, letting tracker jackers sting him for the hallucinations. Making Daryl think he had something to come home for when really he was getting his ass dragged away by Peacekeepers and leaving him alone in an empty house. 

Merle spits. “Watch out.” 

Behind him, Andrea laughs, and it’s the only warning he gets before she’s on him. 

He tries to whirl, knock her off balance, but she’s suddenly got a knife to his throat, the sharp bite of it taking over his entire focus. “Sorry honey. It’s just business.” He looks back over at Merle, but sees Shane standing in his place, leaning back against a tree with his arms crossed. 

“Well? You a bitch or what?” 

Daryl leans forward like he’s going to try to pull away, and smashes his head back into her face. She screams, jerking away and he feels the knife catch him on the ear. She’s back on him in an instant, blood streaming from her nose, but he’s ready this time, and they both go down. 

They roll on the ground, snarling like animals. He spends most of it just trying to avoid the knife. She gets a hold of his hair, rips it out, bites him on the neck. He punches her in the face, feels her nose give way. Eventually he gets her pinned beneath him, his hands wrapped around her neck, his blood rushing behind his eyes. He feels a pressure on his leg, feels the hot and wet of his own blood. 

He ignores it, holding her down, pressing his thumbs against her windpipe. She turns bright red, and struggles harder than he would have imagined from a girl her size.

He holds her there until he hears the canon go off. 

“I’d say she’s pretty well dead.” He looks up, vaguely surprised Shane is still around. He swaggers over and squats next to her, studying her face. Daryl reaches down and pulls the knife out of his own thigh, wincing. “She deserved it.” 

Shane laughs. “Oh yeah?” Daryl glances up at him, annoyed, then back down at Andrea. 

It’s Beth. 

He stumbles back, his injured leg giving out. He struggles to stand, shaking. “Fuckin’-” He can't breathe.

Shane gives him a critical look. “Watch out.” 

Daryl grabs the crossbow off the ground, slinging it over his shoulder. “Stay away from me.” 

He backs up, intending to keep Shane in his field of vision until he’s well hidden in the wheat field.

Shane grins, his whole face stretching with it. “Man I said watch out.” 

Daryl scowls, taking another step back, and falls off the cliff. 

The river rushes towards him, exactly what he’d been looking for not ten minutes earlier. He hits the side of the ravine first, rolling down the rest of the way through the brush and trees until he finally hits the water. 

He must have blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knows he’s downstream and his side is on fire. He doesn’t know how he makes it to shore, but he does, collapsing onto the ground, his legs still dangling in the water. He grips at his side, which has an arrow sticking out of it. The crossbow is gone, washed away. 

Daryl laughs hysterically. Above him, Andrea’s smiling face is projected onto the sky, the kill of the day. He’ll be next when someone finds him. Maybe it’ll be Merle. 

It’s not.

It’s Glenn, holding a spear. He pokes his head out of the bush, looking cautiously around the clearing, probably trying to see if Daryl’s some kind of bait. 

Daryl watches him passively, his hand pressed against his side, heaving breaths. He can’t do much of anything for his leg. 

Glenn comes right up to him, studying his face. He glances down at the rest of Daryl’s body, his eyes coming to rest on his leg. His eyebrows furrow, and he leans down, pulling at Daryl’s pants. They come apart at the rip in the seam. He straightens, his mouth set in a hard line. Daryl know’s his leg is a bloody mess, and poisoned too, already turning black. That had really happened. This hadn’t. 

Glenn reaches over and pulls the bolt out of his side, throwing it into the river and straightening up. Daryl clenches his teeth, almost completely holding back a scream. Glenn stands over him, just looking at him intently. Looking exactly the same as he did twenty years ago, how he would always look now, fourteen and scrawny, immortalized in the replays of his death and in his haunting of Daryl’s dreams. 

He shifts his grip on the spear, glancing off to the side, considering. Daryl already knows what’s going to happen, and then it does. Glenn looks him in the eyes and frowns, like he means it. 

“Sorry brother.” He brings the spear down. 

Daryl jerks up, his heart pounding in his chest, breathing like he really had just been back down in the arena instead of in the penthouse it paid for. He goes to put his head in his hands and realizes he’s holding the knife he keeps under his pillow. The one he’s really not allowed to have since the tributes could feasibly use it to kill themselves. Or he could. He sets it on the bedside table. 

“Shit.” He scrubs a hand over his face and gets up, moving to stand next in front of the wall across from his bed, which turns into a floor to ceiling window at the touch of a button. He’s used to the dreams of course, to the phantom pains in his long healed leg. Some weeks he kills Andrea four or five times in a row, every night. More often it’s Glenn, how it really happened, not this new bullshit his brain has decided to invent, using his own words against him. 

He turns and walks out into the main room, almost missing Sophia as he passes her on the couch. She regards him silently, her arms wrapped around her knees. 

“Christ kid what are you doin’ up?” 

She gives him a long look, her eyes flat. “It’s tomorrow.” 

He pauses on his way to the fridge for a second, and then continues on to it, fishing a beer out and unscrewing the top. “Yeah. And you’re not doin’ anyone any good stayin’ up.” 

He leans against the counter and looks back over at her. She’s got her head down, trembling. For a minute he just stands there, unsure of what to do. The Dixon’s aren’t exactly known for their comforting skills, and in any case, he’s not sure that’s what she needs right now. 

He sets the beer down, it’s not strong enough for the occasion anyway. “Look. Remember what I told you?” 

“The odds aren’t actually in your favor, you need to make them for yourself.” She says, her voice muffled by her knees. 

“Right. An’ right now you aren’t exactly makin’ things any easier on yourself.” She raises her head to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed. He makes himself give her a stern look. “Get on to bed.” 

She straightens, setting her feet on the floor but doesn’t get up, staring at her feet. They stay in their respective positions for an indeterminable amount of time before she speaks. 

“I just-” Her voice cracks and she takes a deep breath. “This is the last time I’m going to be out of the arena.” She looks up at him. “I’m not going to get out.” 

They stare at each other, both waiting to see if he’ll deny something that’s true. If he’ll lie right to her face on the last night before the countdown to the end of her life. 

“Well you ain’t if you don’t get some sleep.” 

She looks at him for a few seconds more before nodding and standing up. Daryl watches her disappear into the dark of her room, listens until he hears the door shut. 

He frowns and dumps his beer into a potted plant, not realizing until he’s already done it that it’s plastic. 

“Fuckin’ place.” He picks up the pot and hurls it against the wall, but it just bounces off, rolling behind the couch. 

He goes back to bed. 

***

Some hours later, he wakes with a start again, though he’s not sure why. He sits up, listens. A few seconds later he hears what is presumably the second ring of the buzzer for the door. He glances to the right to check the sun, but the wall is a wall again. Frowning, he gets up. 

“Clock.” His voice is scratchy, but whatever computer is in the room recognizes it anyway and shows the time on the wall. Five am. The buzzer goes off again and he heads for the main door, annoyed.

He gets to it as whoever it is loses all sense of respect and general politeness and just holds the damn thing down, filling the room with one long, constant sound. Gritting his teeth so he doesn’t start yelling, he pushes the button to open the door, pissed that he can’t wrench it open so that he can slam it their face. 

It slides open silently and Lori pushes her way past him and into the main room. She gives him an annoyed look. “What took you so long?” 

He glares and doesn’t dignify the question with a response. “What are you doin’ here?” She rolls her eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen.” She says, putting her hands on her hips and glaring back.

Daryl just looks at her. After a few seconds she huffs and runs a hand over her face, carefully avoiding her makeup, which makes her look like some kind of glittery raccoon. He wonders if she ever sleeps or if it’s just permanent. 

“The District 8 tribute killed himself last night. He got ahold of a knife somehow and did it while everyone else was asleep. They only just found him and it’s all over the news already. It’s a disaster. A huge blow for the Capitol.” She’s biting one of her pointed thumbnails. Daryl walks over to the couches and sits down. 

“The night before the Games! What are people going to say? What are we supposed to do now? How could he have been so...” She waves her hands. Apparently there are no words for the insult, Daryl thinks, watching her pace in her teetering shoes.

“He leave a note?” 

Lori frowns and looks over at him. “What?” 

“Did he leave a note?” She frowns and walks over to the couch across from him, perching on the edge like a bird. 

“I don’t know, what does it matter?” 

Daryl tightens his grip on the chair leg, thinking. He looks at her. “Why’r you here?” 

She blinks, the makeup making the expression exaggeratedly owl-like. “I-” 

“We aint friends.” She gives him a cold look. After a minute she laughs, though there’s no humor in it. 

“No, we most certainly are not.” 

They sit in silence, watching each other for an indeterminable amount of time until Lori’s phone makes a shrill sound. She frowns and fishes it out of one of the dozen pockets of her plastic skirt, shooting him one last unreadable look before answering it, walking through the door to the back rooms. 

Daryl watches her go, somehow still surprised by the gall of this woman. He goes back to his own room, though there isn’t much point in sleeping now, they all have to be up in half an hour anyway. 

He sits down on the bed and puts his elbows on his knees, and tries to remember something, anything about the kid from District 8. But all he can think is that he’s one less killer for Sophia to worry about.


	4. Strategy

“Five minutes.” Lori calls down the stairs, sounding excited. Daryl grits his teeth, but doesn’t even bother to glare in her general direction. Like they need the reminder. He looks back to Sophia, sitting on the bench staring at the floor, her mouth set in a hard line. He’s got no doubt that she’s well aware of how bad her situation is now, even considering what it already was. 

In the aftermath of the suicide, the media had flocked to the girl tribute from District 8, and so had the sponsors, responding to her sad smiles and her vow to ‘win for him, for both of us.’ Daryl has to give credit to her handler, she might actually stand a chance now. 

But in the space of ten hours, Sophia was down to three sponsors, and not a whole lot of chances. 

He hadn’t told her in so many words, but she’s not a dumb kid. 

“Hey.” She turns, pale faced and shaking and he makes himself smile at her. It’s the only thing he can do for her now. A second passes and she blinks and bolts over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“I- I can’t.” Her voice breaks.

He kneels and takes hold of her shoulders. “You have to.” Her face crumples. The countdown starts. He gives her a firm shake. “No, listen. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see you cry alright? You need to survive fer’ your mama. You can do it.”

She nods and for a second he believes she actually can. There’s a hardness, a determination in her eyes that wasn’t there the night before. He hopes it’s enough. The countdown reaches ten. 

Sophia takes a deep breath and scrubs a hand over her eyes. Five, four. 

Then it’s over and she’s in the clear round elevator taking her up and into the arena, out of sight through a hole in the ceiling. Daryl stands still, looking at it until Lori clicks into the room. “They’re up, should we-” She cuts off, giving him a startled look. “Are you-” 

He glares, swiping a hand over his face. “Shut up and let’s go.” He leaves, not waiting for her. 

By the time they get up to the viewing area, they’ve missed the start of the games. Lori huffs in indignation, as though she expected them to stall the whole process just for her. Daryl ignores her, scanning the screens for Sophia, consciously avoiding the carnage that remains at the Cornucopia. 

The arena this year is a desert, straight out of the north end of D4, or maybe the far west of his district. Daryl frowns, considering. There isn’t much visible cover, but there’s sure to be some engineered and hidden off some place. Water will the main issue. 

Most of the tributes Daryl can see are making their way to positions of relative safety, some with weapons, some with injuries sustained in the initial rush. He spots Randel sprinting across a stretch of flat land, a knife clutched in his hand, headed towards nothing. Daryl rolls his eyes. Fool was going to run himself down for the others. They’d probably find him the next morning, hypothermic from the desert night, with his precious knife clutched to his chest like it would save him. He turns away, still searching. Nothing, though the D1 Shane had trained is nowhere to be found either and he’s Daryl’s main point of concern for Sophia. 

Finally, he looks at the screens still showing the Cornucopia. There’s about six bodies littering the ground in various states of completeness. One is clearly a result of jumping the gun on the timer and tripping the mine buried beneath. It’s one of the smaller ones, burned beyond recognition, but he dismisses the notion offhand. There’s no way she’d be so stupid. The rest are mostly older, mostly from the lesser districts, though one looks like a D4. None of them are Sophia. 

Someone comes to stand next to him. “Quite the mess.” Daryl doesn’t turn, still searching. The man doesn’t leave, and Daryl can feel his eyes on him. 

Finally, after the man just _won't leave_ , Daryl grunts and responds. “Jus’ like every other year.” 

The man hums in agreement. “I worry about the arena though. A bit harsh isn’t it?” 

Daryl makes a vague sound of agreement and turns to look at the aerial views. The man repositions himself to remain directly next to him. “I actually questioned the Gamemakers about it. I mean, we don’t want a repeat of the tundra incident now, do we?” 

At the mention of Gamemakers, Daryl glances over to find the interview man, Dale, looking back at him. He puts a friendly hand on Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl just looks at him, dumbfounded by his presumption. “You were here for that weren’t you?” 

Daryl shakes him off. Dale just gives him an amused and open look. He’s got bubble gum pink contacts in. Daryl looks away. “It was just eight years ago.” 

“Oh that’s right.” Dale chuckles. “I guess I’m finally getting old, can’t hardly remember a thing.” 

Daryl makes a noncommittal sound, wanting to tell Dale to go away but unsure about the consequences of insulting such a high up member of the Game Board. 

“It really was awful, watching those kids freeze. Such a waste. I hope I don’t have to see it happen again.” Daryl curls his hands into fists. He slowly uncurls them and does it again, his eyes trained on the screen showing what looks like is going to be the first post-Cornucopia death of the session. 

The tundra had been worse than bad. Daryl had good kids that year, but not one of them, not even the D1s or the D2s stood a chance that year against the environment they’d been put into. After the initial burst of energy and gathering of supplies they all slowed down in the cold. After the first night, all but three were dead. There was only one fight that year, between two girls that could barely stand for the cold, sluggishly throwing themselves at each other and crying all the while. The winner had been a kid from D9 who’s great strategy had been to drag himself into the Cornucopia at the start and stay there. The look on his face when he found out he’d won had been ridiculous, though he never fully regained full use of most of his extremities due to nerve damage, and that was after medical assistance. It’s considered to be the single worst mistake in the history of the Game and had resulted in the entirety of the Game Board being ‘replaced’. 

They won’t make the same mistakes here though, not so soon. They’ll have pockets of supplies, animals to hunt, shelter to be uncovered. They’ll give them a shot if only to prolong the entertainment, Daryl’s sure of it. 

“Oh look, there’s your other one.” Daryl follows his gaze to the third screen. Sophia is there, tucked under an impressive multi-colored formation of rocks and in the process of erecting a passable excuse for camouflaged wind protection for the night. He hopes she remembers not to make a fire in such an exposed area. Not that there’s much to make a fire with except cactus. 

“Well aren’t you even going to thank me?” He glances over at Dale’s smiling face. “That was what you were looking for wasn’t it?” They stare at each other for a long time.

Finally Daryl looks away, back towards the screen where Sophia is looking at the sun, presumably to estimate the time. “Can you sponsor a tribute?” 

“Me?” He chuckles. “No, Game-” 

“Then why are you talkin’ to me?” Dale immediately falls quiet, and Daryl hopes he’ll stay that way, though after a few tense seconds he can feel him getting ready to say something else. 

“You know...I remember your interview.” 

“Good fer’ you.”

“No really, I might be getting old but I always remember the winners, especially the ones who have no business being there.” He smiles and strokes his beard thoughtfully. 

Daryl chooses not to voice his opinion on that. They fall into blessed silence, though Dale never actually goes away. He doesn’t understand what the man’s problem is. Daryl considers himself very good at broadcasting ‘unwelcome’ to all other living beings. He catches a familiar flash of white out of the corner of his eye. _Speak of the devil._ , he thinks. 

He moves to the other side of the room to avoid Rick Grimes, Dale on his heels, though at least the man has decided to play ball with the whole not speaking thing. 

“Not a fan of Peacekeepers?” 

Daryl glares. So much for that. “No.” 

“Ok.” 

They keep watching. 

***

It’s a harsh competition. Many die in the first few days. The extreme heat and cold seem to send the majority of the tributes into a frenzy, wanting to be out one way or another as fast as possible. After that it starts to slow down, the smart ones settling into their roles, hunters and prey. Those who have the advantages they need to actively search others out to eliminate them, and the ones who try to slip by unnoticed. 

As it turns out, Sophia is actually pretty good at surviving quietly. Daryl watches her for hours everyday and thinks about how it’s a skill they all grow up with where they come from. They all know how to endure, to make themselves insignificant. Or not, when it suits them.

“Dear lord, thank you for protecting me for another day...” 

Daryl raises a hand to rub at his chin and hide a slight smile. Turns out, much to Sophia’s advantage, the burned body at the Cornucopia had been the little girl from D8, which effectively put the sympathy card right back into Sophia’s capable hands, from the moment she first dropped to her knees in the sand upon seeing the faces of the dead projected in the sky to pray for their souls. 

She prays at least once everyday, sometimes more. Worship, despite being a pretty uncommon practice in the Capitol, except when it’s directed to the gods celebrity and consumerism, is seen as a charmingly rustic activity. Daryl had never been a particularly strong believer himself, not being inclined toward asking for help from anyone, let alone a higher power. It would never have flown with him in the games anyway. They would never have believed it of him. 

Sophia though? She could pull it off. Had been slowly winning the hearts of every near-human in the Capitol with half a heart for the past week now with her praying and talking to her mother whenever she’s not working on traps or improving her camouflage. Tells her how they’re going to live when she comes back, how they can help the others with the prize money. It’s an empty dream, but it sounds sincere. 

Maybe she means it. 

Either way, it puts him in enough of a decent mood to not glare at Rick Grimes when he comes up to him in the viewing room, two drinks in hand and a friendly smile on his face. 

“How's it going?” 

Daryl accepts the drink and nods. “Good. She’s doing good.” 

Rick laughs and Daryl realizes what he said, grimacing and taking a drink from his glass to hide it. It taste like chemicals and green apple and he almost spits it back out. Rick is still grinning at him. 

“You’re really counting on this one aren’t you? Think she’ll actually make it? Then you could retire.” 

Daryl grunts. “Not likely.” But his eyes stray to the screen in front of them, to where Sophia is currently scraping the spines off a cactus with a blunt rock to eat, her hands steady. 

“Well even I have to admit she puts on a good show, though of course I’m rooting for the other guy.” 

Daryl looks over at him and suddenly feels the disconnect between them yawning wide and empty like a physical force. 

He suddenly feels the urge to understand him, this man he’d known for so many years but doesn’t know at all. What if Rick had been born as his neighbor? 

What if Daryl had been a Peacekeeper?

Rick isn’t missing the light in his eyes that most Peacekeepers Daryl’s used to dealing with are, the ones who for some reason or another got sent away to D11 to rot with the rest of them, but there’s something missing from him that Daryl can’t place, can’t even begin to understand how it got lost. 

Daryl clears his throat and glances over at Rick. “When’s yer’ boy due to compete?” 

Rick blinks at him over his glass which he’d been in the process of raising to his mouth, clearly surprised. He lowers it without drinking and gives Daryl a long look. Normally, he’d be all for talking about his son the future Career, Daryl barely hears him talk about anything else, but maybe he senses that Daryl is serious. That he doesn’t want to be talked through today, one eye fixed on something else, half listening. That he’s willing to level with him for the first time. 

“Three years.” Rick adjusts his plastic hat. Leans back to study him. “It’s quite an honor.” 

“What happens when he dies?” 

Rick’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t look away, the plastic expression of his face staying fixed. “Careers have an eighty percent chance of winning.” 

Daryl just looks at him. Really looks, for what feels like the first time.

Rick laughs and downs the rest of his drink. “I mean, tell that to the ones you beat though, right?” 

Not knowing what to do, Daryl just nods. Waits for the ice to crack.

Silence. Rick looks at him. They look at each other. Daryl starts to feel that itch go up his back, the instinct to either fight or get out, to protect himself. 

But then Rick just nods, looking away.

“I’m sorry.” 

Daryl can only stare, something like shock running through him as Rick turns to go, leaving his glass behind for someone else to clean up.


	5. What the Ends Justify

“Never knew there were so many kinds of cactus, did you?”

Daryl grunts, doing his best to ignore Dale, though privately he’d been having similar thoughts. The landscape just seemed unreal. It probably wasn’t. There was just no way what they were seeing was natural. 

Sophia and the rest of the remaining tributes had been shepherded by sudden rains and flash floods from their relative safety up onto one of the two giant mesas, in her case right into a massive field of cactus and scrub bush. 

On the one hand, she had gotten a considerable amount of screen time climbing up the side of the cliff face, which was good. On the other hand, she was soaking wet and without food, which had of course been the point. 

After all, it’s supposed to be a show. Daryl huffs out a breath and Dale chuckles. “Frustrated?” 

“Mind yer’ own, old man.” 

Dale just laughs again and turns to walk towards the food table. Daryl glares at his back as he goes, but his heart isn’t in it. He’d just about gotten used to his constant presence. Maybe he’d bring him something to eat anyway. 

There’s a sudden uproar from the crowd in the room and he looks up in time to see a kid get an arrow in the chest, the berries he’d been holding scattering all over the dusty ground. His eyes flick over to another screen, the one with Sophia.

She’s sitting half in a bush in her underclothes, the rest of them laid out in the sun to dry, the jacket she’d had sent to her by one very wealthy sponsor sopping wet but still clutched in her hand. She’d held on to it for the entire climb. Must have realized that to survive in the desert you need to stay warm and you need to not insult the few people that send you presents. 

He watches her use a rock to scrape the spines off of a round flat slab of cactus, totally unaware that she has one less person to be worried about. That she’s that much closer to getting out. 

The thought is enough to make him turn and head out to do what he’d been avoiding. It was past the time he was allowed to leave anyway.

“Grow up, ya’ bitch.” He mutters to himself as he heads for the door, earning an affronted look from a nearby woman.

If Sophia is going to eat raw cactus with half the spines still in it three times a day then he can suck it up and go talk to Lori Grimes. 

***

He walks up the steps to her building, annoyed at having to come find her when she should be working. But Daryl had learned long ago that Capitol people aren’t really required to play by the rules.

The elevator is slow, and the wide-eyed silent servant tries to stop him at the door but he pushes them out of the way, striding into her private apartment that’s bigger than the house he grew up in and stops dead. 

They turn simultaneously, the movement so in sync it’s almost comical. 

For a second no one moves. Then Shane shoots him a smirk and leans back against the couch. “Hey man, how bout’ a drink?” 

Daryl looks at them. Her gold lipstick is all over his face, smearing glitter everywhere and making him sparkle in the dim light. He’s got one big hand on Lori’s ass, bunching up her skirt. 

Lori regains herself, shooting up from the couch and straightening her dress. “Wha- get out!” 

He fixes her with a glare. “I just came to say that Sophia needs more sponsors. Do yer’ fucking job.” Behind her, Shane throws his head back and laughs, the sound harsh and loud. Lori just stares, totally blank. 

Scowling, Daryl turns around and walks out. Then Lori is yelling after him, screaming that she has the power to destroy his life, that they won’t believe him, that Rick won’t. 

Daryl’s ignores her, pretty sure that Rick already knows. Makes it out the door just as she starts to cry. 

One of the mute servants, a different one, tries to wave him over at the door but he ignores her, heading out onto the street where he’s not supposed to be. 

It’s not as freeing as he’d hoped. Probably because he’ll never really be free within the confines of the city. It’s nothing like being in the woods. Still though, it’s better than staying and it’s better than going back to his cell of an apartment, so he walks. 

If Sophia doesn’t see results soon, he’ll have to go back and light a fire under her ass. Hopefully the threat of him telling Rick and wrecking her little neon and plastic world will be enough to motivate her. He squints up at the lighted signs above him advertising what seems to be an acid-themed bar, and sighs.

“Might as well.” He turns the corner to take him there and walks right into Glenn, who loses his balance and stumbles back. 

“Hey!” Glenn squawks as he rights himself, shooting Daryl a glare, the line that showed he’s angry forming between his eyebrows. 

Daryl stares, frozen, the logical part of his brain screaming at him that it’s not him, it’s obviously not him because he’s dead. Glenn is dead and Daryl killed him. But-

“Hey! Are you even listening to me? Watch where you’re going!” Glenn yells, his too small hands clenched into fists. 

But he’s seen stranger things than ghosts in the woods. 

The kid scoffs and pushes past him, seeming to realize he’s fighting a losing battle in getting Daryl to respond. Daryl watches him cross the street, and as he turns to shoot him one last black look it’s not Glenn anymore, of it course it isn’t. 

Daryl lets out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding and scowls after the kid, irrationally angry. 

“Fucker.” He kicks the ground and turns, glaring at nothing. Maybe he’s losing his mind. He had never seen Glenn outside of his dreams before, not since the arena. Not since he held him by the hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. And hesitated. 

Glenn had just knelt in front of him, waiting, and Daryl could feel him shaking. He remembers that he’d thought it would like with a deer, quick and easy. Necessary. 

He’d been wrong. 

After a few seconds in which Daryl thought that maybe he’d just never move again, Glenn had lunged, tipping them and scrambling to get up. Daryl had swiped with the knife, catching him in the leg, and he went down. 

Daryl knelt over him, and Glenn stared up at him with flat, hard eyes. His face was lined with pain. The one thing Daryl regrets the most is that he drew it out, made him wait for death for so long, when he should have just ended it. He could see in his eyes that Glenn blamed him for it too. 

Daryl lowered the knife, seventeen and shaking like a leaf. Glenn wasn’t shaking anymore, wasn’t moving at all. 

“Well?

Daryl tightened his grip. “Sorry brother.” 

The knife came down, and a few seconds later the few remnants of food he’d managed to scrounge came up. “Shit.” He panted, on his hands and knees next to Glenn. Glenn’s body. 

He remembers thinking that if he’d had any sponsors before, he certainly didn’t have them now. 

Daryl didn’t do anything for Glenn to honor him, the kid who was nice to him when they were training, who asked questions about his District, made _jokes_ for God’s sake. The kid who Daryl had kissed not even a week before. He just left him there, blood all over the dirt, his eyes open and staring. There was no time to do anything but search him and go. 

He’s brought out of his reverie by a slick black car pulling up in front of him, two Capitol agents getting out to let him know that they had been sent to give him a ride back to his apartment, to make sure he’s _comfortable_. He ignores them, climbing into the back. 

Visions of the past creep up on him the whole was back, but he banishes them, even Glenn. There’s no point dwelling on the dead. 

He has more important things to focus on anyway. 

***

Sophia receives a good knife the next morning, sailing down in a basket to her feet. She stares at it for a few silent seconds before jumping up from where she’d been sleeping and scooping it up. 

Daryl watches her gather up her few possessions and move, getting away from the area that the balloon dropped to, stopping to clear away the signs of where she had slept. 

He nods. “Good girl.” Lori must have finally done her job. She’s even there for the whole day, clinging to Rick and resolutely avoiding Daryl’s eyes. For all her threats he can tell that she thinks he’s going to say something. Suits him just fine. 

Daryl leaves the sponsors to her, the perfect citizen with the perfect husband, knowing by now that he’s more likely to mortally offend someone than to improve Sophia’s chances. He sets about ignoring her right back, trying to focus on the screens, but he can’t quite. 

Something about hearing her cry won’t leave him alone. It was the most human he’s ever heard her sound. So he watches her walk around with her hard plastic smile, being extra nice to all the sponsors and trying to pretend that she isn’t watching him too.

Daryl had known Lori for years, just like Rick, and there has never been a moment when he’s felt connected to her, never a second of feeling like there’s something in her other than ugly ambition. Maybe it was his conversation with Rick, but he can’t bring himself to deny her humanity anymore either. 

What must it be like to raise your child for slaughter? He’d never met the son, Carl, but he’s seen kids die for twenty years, and it wears you down. He’d always just assumed that Lori was heartless, trained out of empathy entirely, because how else could she do it? Maybe she’s just as trapped as he is. 

Daryl glances back over to where they’re standing, the golden pair. There’s a tightness about them, like the air is thick. Rick happens to look in his direction, and their eyes meet. And Rick’s smile slips, just a little. Daryl turns on his heels and walks over to the bar. 

He needs to stop getting close to these people. 

The bar area is pretty crowded, so Daryl’s uncomfortable enough as he waits for his drink, glaring down at the smooth green counter to not notice Shane’s approach until he’s there, his hand on Daryl’s shoulder. He stiffens, resisting the urge to hit him since he knows that’s exactly what Shane wants. 

“Somethin’ you need?” Daryl asks, mildly. He tries to tell himself that he has the upper hand here, that while he can’t ruin Shane’s life he can probably destroy his best relationships, but the knowledge of what it would cost weighs heavy in his mind. Maybe he’ll do it anyway, after Sophia gets out. Might be nice to finally get away. 

Shane shrugs, finally letting go. “Nah man, just passing through.” He says, scratching at the bandage on his nose.

“So pass through.” Daryl says, evenly. Shane smiles, all teeth, and sits down instead. 

“You know, I don’t see why we can’t be buddies like you and Rick are.” 

Daryl huffs a laugh, looking ahead at the screens. Shane continues, rolling a glass in between his fingers. “Way I see it, you and me have the most in common out of everyone in this room.” 

Daryl grunts. “Way I see it, yer’ bored and lookin’ for a fight.” He looks him straight in the eye. “You aint’ findin’ it with me.”

Shane smirks. “Not this time, you mean.” Daryl doesn’t bother responding. Eventually, Shane stands, putting his hand on Daryl again. He leans down close, right next to his ear.

“You and I _should_ just fight it out. Let me know.” Then he walks away. 

Daryl stares after him until he's gone. He watches Shane skirt around Rick and Lori, who are still clinging to each other, and wonders if Shane wants to die. 

An exclamation rings out through the room, and realizing that he’d been neglecting the screens, he turns, somehow knowing already.

 _Sophia._ Daryl feels his bones turn to lead, and he forgets all the other Capitol people with their arguments and affairs and self-generated hatreds. 

She isn’t going to make it. She’s running, but she isn’t going to be fast enough. 

Randal catches her. 

Watching her get dragged back, her precious new knife smacked out of her hand, watching her have her head smashed in, Daryl can’t even summon up the energy to be angry anymore. 

He stands still and watches, just like everyone else. 

Next to him, Dale makes a sympathetic sound, and he can hear the disappointment in the voices of the root-for-the-underdog types in the room, but he doesn’t think about them. 

He thinks about Carol, sitting in her house, alone. Watching the instant replay of her only daughter’s skull cracking under the weight of a rock, blood spilling onto the ground as Randel stumbles away to vomit into the bushes. 

They don’t move her body of course, and her unseeing eyes stare up out of what’s left of her face, directly at the sun. The image stays on one of the view screens long enough for Randel to take what little supplies she’d had stored and stagger off. Then it’s gone, the image switched to some kid Daryl has never met and never will meet. 

He hadn’t had to kill the girl from his district, she’d been taken down within the first ten minutes at the Cornucopia. He still remembers hearing her scream, watching her fall to the ground with a sword sticking out of her chest. He’d been too- everything to internalize it at the time, but when he saw her projected in the sky the first night, he’d been relieved that it didn’t have to be him. 

Daryl’s not allowed to leave the viewing areas, because he still has a tribute in the game. And so he sits to wait out the rest of his time. It doesn’t take long after that. 

Randal doesn’t win, of course he doesn’t. People from District 11 don’t win. He’d been a fool to forget that. In the end it’s the girl from District 1, the one Shane had said was so good. 

When it ends, he stays in the viewing room after everyone else has left, vaguely aware that he should be doing something, that they’ll probably be back in a few minutes to retrieve him, to bring him back to his assigned quarters and then to his assigned house in District 11 to wait for the next round. And then the next. 

It doesn’t take long, and he goes without a word, his eyes trained directly in front of him. They bring him to the after party and sit him down in a chair he’ll stay in until they come again. Everyone in the room apparently has enough of a survival instinct to leave him alone, even Shane, though Daryl supposes he’s a bit busy being congratulated. Maybe he should take him up on that fight. 

He closes his eyes and stays that way. 

He wishes he could bring her back. Wishes Merle was still alive. Wishes he could change everything. But mostly he wishes he hadn’t won. 

Daryl had been a damn fool, to look for hope in that little girl. 

Hope wouldn’t come to Panem for another nineteen years.


End file.
